


Hang Me Up to Dry (The Dirty Laundry Remix)

by littledust



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:30:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana and Brittany are not dating. (Five scenes from eighth grade to "Sexy.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hang Me Up to Dry (The Dirty Laundry Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [toomuchgawking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchgawking/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Hang Me Up to Dry](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/19990) by toomuchgawking. 



> Scene headings are from "Gold Dust Woman" by Fleetwood Mac.

_1\. pick your path_

By age thirteen, Santana knows her cues.

"You wish you were in on this, dudes," she says, flipping her hair as she follows Brittany into the Pierce laundry room. There are several _oooooohs_ behind them, along with Quinn Fabray pressing her lips together. Girl is jealous that being a prude will never get her as far as being a--whatever's between prude and slut. Santana's been called a bitch ever since fifth grade, when she punched Noah Puckerman for snapping Brittany's bra.

_Bitch_ is a good title as long as boys still like you, but once the door closes, Santana stops thinking about boys.

"I like it in here," Brittany says, hopping up to sit on the washing machine. It makes her even taller, and her smile is even brighter without the braces. "Lord Tubbington hates it. I was trying to help him lose weight in the dryer."

"Cats don't shrink," Santana says, wiping her palms on her jeans. "Hey, Britt?"

"Yeah?"

"I know it's just five more minutes, but I was thinking we could practice kissing."

"Haven't we practiced with a lot of people?"

"For real practice, like for when we're old and married."

Santana's lost long before their lips touch, before Brittany's slow smiling assent, even before she asks. The loss came years ago, when she showed her abuela the matching wedding rings she and Brittany made for each other. The fear leapt from her abuela's face to Santana's heart, which beats faster and faster at the taste of Brittany's lip gloss.

_2\. dig your grave_

Ever since scandalizing an entire playground with insults copied straight from MTV, Santana has blessed her parents for making the TV the babysitter whenever her abuela isn't available. She's felt doubly blessed ever since that game of Seven Minutes in Heaven (or, as Brittany likes to call it, Seven Minutes in a Small Space).

"Elizabeth is so boring," Santana complains, tossing a piece of popcorn at the television screen.

Brittany hums in agreement. "She reminds me of Rachel Berry."

" _Ugh._ At least Elizabeth's a blonde." Santana arches her eyebrows meaningfully.

It's a dumb line, but it's way better than the ones Puck tries on the senior cheerleaders. (So what if he made varsity as a freshman? The team _sucks._ ) Santana has game with everybody when she tries. Pure smugness rises in her chest when Brittany scoots over on the couch, draping her long dancer's body over Santana's.

"Jessica would be way hotter if she were a brunette," Brittany says, and kisses Santana's neck.

Brittany, on the other hand, has game with everybody _without_ even trying. Santana would complain, but she has her hands under Brittany's Cheerios sweater. There are, like, miles of soft skin between where Santana's hands are and Brittany's boobs, not that she's nervous or anything. It's just that there's no script for this, nothing to tell her when a girl should get to second base with her best friend who is _also_ a girl. Santana swallows.

"Stop thinking. It's not good for you," Brittany says, face serious, and peels off her sweater.

_3\. heartless challenge_

Things get weirder after they start having sex, which is maybe the only thing normal about their relationship. For one thing, Brittany tells basically the entire glee club about what they do when they're alone together. Thank _God_ those losers aren't in a position to spread rumors, and have some weird kumbaya rainbow solidarity going on. Plus, all the preggo drama keeps them preoccupied for months.

Santana and Brittany split the time between their houses, and the crazy thing is, their parents don't even notice. Brittany's sister is the only one who makes kissy noises whenever Santana comes over, and that's just because Santana's been calling her Fish Lips since the kid was an infant. They're popular and sexy and have lots of awesome sex all the time, which would be great except it keeps giving Brittany ideas. Like, for example: it's a boiling hot night in June, but Brittany likes to keep the sheet draped over them both "like in the movies." Santana needs to start showing her more porn, because shit, sixteen years of this is enough to drive a girl crazy.

That night, Brittany trails her fingers down Santana's arm and asks, "Do you think Quinn knows?"

"Quinn doesn't know a damn thing, and it stays that way," Santana says, voice sharp.

"She's just angry 'cause she's sad. She doesn't mean anything by it," Brittany says. Her face is mashed most of the way into her pillow, like she's sinking into a cloud from whatever cotton candy world she lives in.

"Sometimes people are just assholes, Britt-Britt," Santana says and rolls over. She closes her eyes and her last impression is Brittany's arm stealing around her waist.

_4\. rulers make bad lovers_

The tequila still tastes good even after the tears start, probably because of all the salt. Santana sobs some more at the thought, because she just licked some off her best friend's stomach, her best friend who is currently dating a fucking _loser_. She makes the mistake of looking up at Sam, gamely trying to pry the bottle of tequila out of her hands, and cries harder. His lips are just so _huge_.

"I'm like an egg. Runny," Santana mumbles somewhere after screaming at Sam but definitely probably before the fourth drink, but Brittany isn't here to understand her. Santana Lopez has a giant crack running down her heart, a crack currently leaking feelings all over the place. The booze makes her face warm but numb. Santana touches her face and her fingertips come back wet and smeared with mascara. "Scrambled," she adds, and wobbles to the bathroom.

It's like some kind of movie, when she opens the door and Brittany is there. Santana hauls her back inside, throat closing on all the things she wants to say as she slams the door shut. They've had better sex in the past, but a lot of things were better in the past. Santana lets out a fucked up little giggle when she comes and buries her face in Brittany's neck.

"I have to go find Artie," Brittany says after, kissing her cheek, and this is Santana's fucking fault for telling her she can be with two people at once. Santana buries her face in her knees (mistake, tequila-induced vertigo) and wonders how long until the cracks her in stories start to show, too.

_5\. shatter your illusions_

It seems like all they do is hook up, lately.

It's just that when Brittany starts babbling about her super sweet geek of a boyfriend, because she's _Brittany_ and there's never been a thought she's ever kept from Santana no matter how deeply fucking bizarre, Santana can't stand to listen to another word. There are two ways to shut Brittany up, and they do enough dancing in glee club. (It's not like Santana's lonely for her or anything, though Brittany has a way of kissing that makes her feel so _full_ , like she could live on nothing but kisses and screw the population of McKinley High--)

"Because with feelings it's better," Brittany says, and things fall apart. Santana coughs up some excuses over the sound of her heart shattering, the curtain falling, and every other damn _it's over_ cliche in the book. Turns out the fat lady sings to the tune of Stevie Nicks.

There's not much you can do after you lay out the remains of your heart for the girl you love to smash. Santana stumbles through the hallways into the girls' locker room, where she strips off all her clothes and curls up in a shower stall. The fall of water masks her tears, at least, and does a little to muffle the guttural noises ripping their way out of her throat. Brittany's last words pound in her head. Santana would have to beat it against the floor tiling to get them out.

This is not the story of two best friends falling in love, because the girl never gets the girl. This is not a love story. Santana stares at her hands and wonders when she started believing otherwise. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Everyone saw her crying when she walked away from Brittany--time for damage control.

By age seventeen, Santana knows her cues.


End file.
